


that one where dean takes sam to the beach

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Day At The Beach, Gender Dysphoria, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Trans Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 20:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12872622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: It makes Dean's stomach flip and he pauses, takes in the sight, lets it settle.(aka, everyone has issues?)





	that one where dean takes sam to the beach

Sam's sitting in the passenger seat with his knees pulled up to his chest -- his, even though he's wearing a Walmart-cheap two-piece bathing suit under one of Dean's old Zeppelin shirts. Sam's always been very clear on pronouns for a reason Dean can't really parse but knows is a constant hurt, judging by the set of Sam's jaw the last time Sam corrected him. 

The Zeppelin shirt barely covers Sam's ass; he's got to be sticking to the Impala's leather in this heat but he's not moving, not making any show of it. He's just staring out the window, brain moving at a million miles an hour. There are times when Dean wishes he was able to tell what Sam's thinking, that he had any sort of edge into understanding the way his brother's mind works. This is not one of those times, not with the way Sam's sitting: tense, hunched over, silent. 

"No one's gonna care," Dean finally says. 

"I know," Sam says. "It's not -- I'm not worried about other people." 

Dean waits for more but nothing comes from Sam, so Dean makes a noise in his throat and offers, "We could go home, sweetheart. No reason we have to get out of the car." 

Home, a crappy little apartment forty minutes inland. Dad set them up and then took off, hasn't given them more than a ten-minute phone call the past three weeks. Times like this, Dean's furious at his father for leaving them, even if it gives him and Sam time to themselves, time for Sam to feel as comfortable as Dean can possibly make him -- furious and then flooded with guilt for it. Their father's doing good things, helping people, hunting monsters, and Dean loves him for it, but sometimes he feels like him and Sam, they're second place in the priorities of John's life, a distant second place behind the hunt and the vengeance it offers. 

"Let's go," Sam says, and he's scrambling out of the Impala just like that, striding down towards the beach with his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

It takes Dean a moment to follow; his attention's caught on Sam's body, the way the t-shirt -- _his_ t-shirt, no matter how long it's been since Sam swiped it, and damn, but Dean loves to see Sam wearing his clothes -- swings just a little around Sam's waist and those far-too-bony hips of his. Sam's still getting taller, all stretched out and thin, but when he fills out the promise of those coltish legs and long, spindly arms, fuck, he's gonna be taller than Dean. 

Dean hurries to follow Sam, pulls the blanket, towels, and cooler from the backseat and heads to the beach. Sam's found an undisturbed patch of sand and has dumped the backpack onto the beach along with his flip-flops. The way he's standing there, arms folded across his chest, sunlight hitting his hair and bringing out the tan in Sam's skin, makes him look more female than Sam's ever appeared before. 

It makes Dean's stomach flip and he pauses, takes in the sight, lets it settle. He's still not quite sure about all of this, not quite sure how he's supposed to be reacting half the time, but Sam is his and he's Sam's and if Sam can work through this like he has been, then Dean can fucking work through it as well. 

"You coming with that blanket or what?" 

Dean jumps, just a little. "Yeah, yeah, hold your horses," he mutters, but does start moving again. He gets the blanket spread out, collapses down on it and brings a boatload of sand with him -- fucking beaches, they'll be scrubbing sand out of their shit for weeks. Dean opens the cooler, takes out a bottle of water and passes it to Sam, says, "Sit down and let me get some sunscreen on you." 

Sam swallows and sits carefully on the blanket; he sets the water down, plays with the hem of his t-shirt. "You promise no one's gonna say anything?" he asks, soft, and it makes Dean's heart break. 

Dean leans forward, kisses Sam's neck, breathes in Sam's scent. "I can't promise that, sweetheart," he says. "But I can promise that if anyone so much as _blinks_ wrong, I'll fuckin' kill 'em. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam says. 

It takes a moment before the shirt comes off, but then Dean's treated to the sight of Sam's back, all that expanse of fresh, young skin, a few scars, a few bruises left over from last night. Sam's hunching inward and Dean runs his fingers under the back of Sam's swimsuit top, a halter that ties at the back of his neck and then low on his torso. "Fuck," he murmurs. Sam turns, just a little, shows Dean a raised eyebrow, and Dean snorts, shakes his head. "The things I wanna do to you," he says. 

Sam holds his gaze for a moment before the flush covers his cheeks completely, starts spreading downwards towards his neck and shoulders. He looks back in front of them, out over the Gulf, and says, "Thought you were gonna sunscreen me." 

Dean respects the cockiness in Sam's voice but loves the thread of lust underneath it. "Have an excuse to get my hands all over you in public? Better believe it." 

"Pervert," Sam says. 

"Can't even argue," Dean admits, "not with the thoughts I got running through my mind." He scoots just that bit closer to Sam, enough so he can whisper straight into Sam's ear. "Can't wait to spread you out across the backseat," Dean says. "All tan and glowing with sun and sweat. Then later, at home, on those fucking ugly white sheets; you're gonna make 'em look like Egyptian cotton." He wraps an arm around Sam's stomach and it doesn't take more than an ounce of physical suggestion to have Sam falling back, resting his head on Dean's shoulder, face tilted up to the sun like he's drinking it down. 

Dean stares, can't help it, and Sam finally says, "Sooner you put the damn sunscreen on me, the sooner I can get in the water and the sooner we'll get out of here."

"Bitch," Dean mutters, tousling Sam's hair, pushing Sam up and not bothering to stifle a smirk as Sam yelps when the cold sunscreen hits his back. 

"Jerk," Sam replies. "And idiot, too -- this was your freaking idea, Dean." 

Dean sighs. Sam has a point.


End file.
